The Other Boy
by RhapsodyInBlue
Summary: A tale of loss and messed up chances. Welcome to life. Derek/Casey
1. Chapter 1

Hello everyone!  
It's been a while since I've put anything up here. It's been a busy summer in Newyorkachusetts, but I think things are beginning to quiet down..,so, please read and REVIEW! Reviews make me happy...

As does peanut butter. And House.

But that is, alas, beside the point.

Disclaimer: Unhappily done.

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It is dark when I awaken. The moon is hidden by a patch of cloud, and all the furniture seems to be floating, dark shapes in a darker fog. I look up, catching the farewell winks of the stars glued to the ceiling, and close my eyes. The night becomes complete, and I stare into my lids. I can see tiny dots, too small to see individually, dancing and twirling like a tortured marionette. Together they make up deep, endless black.

I open my eyes again. I can see shapes now, edges sharp against the walls. The moon returns, in a glorious revelation that bathes my room in a blue-gray glow. My eyes cannot stand the sudden light and I turn away, into the body lying next to me. He moves slightly, and I burrow my way close. His body heat seeps into my skin, transforming muscle and bone into a mesh of warmth. I wrap my arm around his back and he mumbles something from the depths of his subconscious and moves closer. As we lie there, entangled in a web of heat and blankets, I allow my mind to wander, to follow the thin strings of moonlight out of my room, down the empty street, and across the sleeping town to another room altogether, filled with another boy and another girl and another web.

The Other Boy, I call him. The Other Boy, who plays hockey like a madman, yet also plays soft guitar in his room. The Other Boy who called me sister mockingly while he took my coat and filled the pockets with post-it paper cranes. The Other Boy who was always there for me, the Other Boy that I destroyed and tore apart in a wild fit of immaturity, the Other Boy who now can't stand to stay in the same room as me, the Other Boy who was my best friend, the Other Boy, the Other Boy, the Other Boy.

_I can't do this anymore,_ he told me one month ago. _I can't do this, not again, not after last time, I'm sorry. I can't do this_. We sat in that car for hours, silence suffocating the both of us. _I can't do this_. I asked him why. He said then that I had broken him, irrevocably destroyed him and that he couldn't, wouldn't go through it again. _I can't do this._ _Besides, I have a girlfriend, and you have a boyfriend._ I had a plan, I said. We would have waited until later, when we were both single, I said. Please, I said. Please. _I can't do this, not again, not after last time, I can't do this—_

The moon is lighter now, the sky grayer. Everything looks as if it is made of fragile glass. I hold my hand out in the air, trying not to break it. My chest feels heavy, and my eyes burn. I turn back into the sleeping form beside me. Enough, I think bitterly. Enough. We are both too old for this. I love this man, who laughs at my jokes because they are funny, not because I'm the one who made them. I love this man who is dependable, and honest, and kind, and completely over the moon about me. I'm not going to spend my time mooning over the Other Boy, who is irresponsible, a Lord of the Lies, who teases me and fills my shampoo bottle with honey, who would make jokes and look at other women but would pick a fight with anyone who tried to flirt with me, who never said he loved me but would hold me tight as if he would never let me go, who once made my life feel vivid and alive and complete.

_Fuck you, Derek Venturi. I can do this. I will do this._

The sun comes up, bathing my room in a song of reds, yellows and oranges. I squint, trying to compute the sudden change in light. The man next to me grumbles once more and burrows deeper in the pillow. A memory comes, so fast and so hard i can barely breathe from the force of it. A memory of the Other Boy, in our own web, curled around me like a proctective cocoon, his arm curled around me and his legs weaved through mine. I can feel his breath tickling the back of my neck, the soft scratch of his stubble, his voice growling in my ear, "Wake up, Casey, you're drooling again..."

Can I do this?


	2. Chapter 2

Sorry this took so long. It's not the companion piece, I apologize, but I wanted to continue this a bit, see where the feelings were gonna go and if this had the potential to be continued.

The song lyrics for this chapter are from a song called Remember. The artist is Chris Peters, one of the more talented muscial people I have ever met and one of my best friends. He wrote this for his girlfriend, and it's an absolutely gorgeous song. Please, _please_ look it up on iTunes. It's a wonderful piece, and he has a bunch of other equally amazing songs out too in his new album, _California Someday Soon_.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

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He leaves our web before I do. I feel him move the covers out of the way and get out of bed, making an indentation in the mattress. He kisses my cheek and whispers "Good Morning," then leaves, closing the door softly behind him.

I am alone.

The walls begin to cave around me, swallowing me whole. I feel like a mouse being eaten by a cat, the guilt and sadness pointing its ugly teeth down, ready to stab and chew me up.

I have to leave. Now.

I get up in one fluid movement and leave the room, staggering slightly on my way to the kitchen. Our shared apartment is small, with pale colors on the walls. Peach. Beige. White. To make the rooms feel bigger, I think. (Because your life has no color, Princess. Shutupshutupshutup. You have no right to do this to me!)

I walk into the kitchen, wrapping my old Japanese smoking jacket tighter around my body. (It makes you look like a hooker. SHUT UP!) The kitchen is small and intensely organized. Silver pots go here, Lids go here, plates and cups go there, silverware in a drawer over there. Usually I am comforted by the sight of everything neat and tidy and correct. But now my mouth is dry and I'm shaking and about to fall over because my boyfriend, THE MAN I LOVE, is standing in the kitchen. Making breakfast. Which he never does. Immediately my mind begins the familiar track: Is he going to break up with me? Oh my God he's going to break up with me. What do I do about the apartment? I technically own it, but when he breaks up with me do I leave? What's the proper protocol on that? And then I stop and breathe. He's not going to break up with me. He loves me. And I love him. It's as simple as that.

"Hey babe." He turns, sun shining off his blonde hair. A picture of a Q-tip swims into my head, and I have to struggle not to laugh. "Hey," I respond, voice hoarse from sleep. He moves towards the table with a plate of eggs. I watch his body move and twist, the muscles shifting under the skin. My heart aches.

"Come and eat, love. I took the day off today, so we can just hang around and…" He smiles at me. I smile back at him, the ache growing stronger. "Yeah, definitely." I feel myself falling back into my old pattern of flirt-and-hide and I embrace it, willing myself to go faster, anything to stop the nagging feeling that something's different, that something's about to go horrendously, horribly wrong. "We can definitely have some fun today." I work the tried and true method: lower eyes down and up, smirk, slightly pouted lips. I take a bite of my eggs. "These are delicious." They're disgusting, but I won't tell him that. He tries so hard, and I love him, so it doesn't matter.

I look up from choking down my eggs and watch him. He's reading the paper, head bent down to the table. His hair has a mind of its own, twisting every-which-way and hiding his grey eyes, eyes that change color in the light. His hands are large, with tapered fingers that twitch against the side of the table, against his arm, along the edge of his plate. He is a being constantly in motion, a complete opposite of the Other Boy, who would---

(STOP. Just stop right now. Don't go there, Casey, don'tgotheredon'tgotheredon'tgothere.)

My boyfriend gets up, in the abrupt motion I have come to know so well. He flicks on the radio by the counter, and our kitchen is filled with the sounds of slow guitar. It's my CD of Chris Peters, the folk singer that I love and he hates, and I know what's going to happen before it does.

_Do you remember the time we met?_

_Your friend introduced us_

_And you smiled when I told you my name…_

I stare at him as he drops down on one knee and mouths dreaded words that fall like anvils on the kitchen tiles. They slam and boom inside my head and I can't hear him but I know what they are and what they're saying and what they mean. And as he stops speaking and smiles, the anvil words echo and create a ringing trap that I can't escape.

_I guess I never sang you a love song_

_I guess I never sang one true_

_But what I've known for so long_

I know what my answer will be. What it has to be.

_I wanna be with you_

No, I don't, I don't, I don't--!

I must.

"Yes, Peter, a thousand times yes."

_I wanna be with you_

I hope I can do this. Jesus, I hope I can do this.

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Review, please. And look up Chris Peters! You won't regret it.  
-Rhapsody


	3. Chapter 3

Toldja it'd be up before Christmas!

Enjoy and Happy Holidays!

Disclaimer: LWD isn't mine, but all the situations sadly are.

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George opens the door when we arrive. He doesn't look at us at first, yelling over his shoulder, "OLIVER! GET OFF THE DRESSER!!!!" He turns to us, and his face breaks into a happy smile. "Hey guys! Good to see you again!" He ushers us in, closing the door behind us.

It's so…_different_ from what I remember. All the furniture has been moved around and is different colors. For a moment my head is swimming, and I feel like a big cat suddenly transplanted in a zoo; bewildered and angry that my environment, my _home_, has changed without my knowledge and my consent. Then all of a sudden my vision is filled with Marti, and everything is right again.

"Oh my God, why didn't you TELL me you were going to be home? I would have gotten you something and—" Marti stops; she's seen The Ring on my finger, weighing my hand down. (The thing is HUGE, with heavy gold bands holding the stone in place. Peter never had the best taste in jewelry, but it doesn't matter, because it is my engagement ring and I love him and The Other Boy would never proposed in the first place, just continued living in sin and without the legal and tax benefits and _I can't do this I'm sorry_ and I need to stop rambling NOW.)

Marti looks up at me, and my heart aches just a bit more, feels just a bit heavier. "Casey, oh my God, congratulations! Why didn't you tell us?? Mom! MOM! GET IN HERE!" She's grabbing on my hand, almost like a claw, and all of a sudden I'm starting to regret coming home.

"What is it, Marti?" My mother walks into the room, holding a pile of laundry. I talk a deep breath, and do the long practiced hold-out, ring catching the light just so. Mom drops the laundry and rushes over, grabbing my hand and cooing, looking up at Peter and smiling, looking at me and smiling.

I smile back. I've gotten better at lying over the years.

***

As we all sit down to dinner, I suddenly feel fifteen again. George and Mom sit at opposite ends, wine glasses in hand, and try desperately to keep Marti and Oliver in line. Marti waves her arms wildly and talks loudly to Peter about Beckett and Sartre, steamrolling over any opinion he might have. I see my teenage self under all the fake bravado, and I have to tune her out. Oliver slouches in his seat, stuffs his mouth full of food, and seems to maliciously enjoy making fun of his sister every other word. I suddenly see the Other Boy, sitting in the exact same spot and laughing cruelly, food stuffed in his mouth and green eyes sparkling and—

It is a very long dinner.

When it is over, Mom takes me into the kitchen, presumably to help her dry the dishes. Peter is stranded in the living room, Oliver trying to entice him into a game of Halo. What he doesn't know is that Peter hates video games, and has since I met him, which is so nice and such a refreshing concept since the Other Boy loved video games, would play them all the time, and would constantly play them and try to beat me and _SHUT UPSHUTUPSHUTUP!!!!!!!_

"—Catering?" Mom asks.

"What? Sorry, Mom." Breathe. This is no time for dreams.

"Who's catering for your wedding?" Mom asks again, wiping at a plate. I smile slightly at her exuberance.

"Mom. He only proposed four days ago, we haven't even decided a date yet!" I laugh softly.

"Is Derek coming to the wedding?"

My heart seizes up, and suddenly I can't breathe. Mom didn't know. She never knew. I put my hand on the counter and try to focus through the fog surrounding my brain. Mom never knew, and she's asking me to invite Der-THE OTHER BOY like he's—

Like he's my stepbrother. Like he's my brother.

Lightly, delicately, I say, "I—most likely. If he wants to come, I haven't seen him in—" One month and three days. "—two years or so. He may be busy."

Pleasepleaseplease don't start, Mom, please don't start. I can't take it, I—I fucked up so badly, Mom, please don't bring it up again, please---

"Of course he'll want to come to the wedding! Why wouldn't he?" She puts a plate away.

Shit.

"Well, you know we're not that close, and you know Derek, he'd probably make an embarrassing toast or something." _Hi! My name is Derek Venturi and I fucked my stepsister-the blushing bride herself. Prost!_

"Look, Mom, I'm really tired, I'm going to head to bed."

"Alright, love." She smiles at me as I back away, completely unperturbed.

I curl up on my bed, knees pressed to my chest. Downstairs, I can hear Peter laughing at one of Oliver's quips. He's such a hit, everyone loves him. I love him.

Totally and completely.

Right.

I look at the garish ring plastered on my finger. Everything used to be so simple, so easy-and then everything just blew up in my face. And now I'm stuck in my old room, with a fiancée downstairs and The Other Boy squirreled away with his girlfriend who is wonderful and perfect. Who isn't _me_.

I get up and begin to pace around my room. I will go to New York tomorrow, I think. I will see Der—The Other—DEREK—and tell him about my wedding. I will tell him that he is invited as—as a brother. My—my big brother. And I will not be sad, or nostalgic, or angry. If he wants to cut off all ties, if he wants to turn this into a familial relationship, then I'm right behind him, giving it everything I've got. He won't see me upset, just supportive. Like the perfect younger sister.

Take _that_, Derek.

_

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_Review Please.

-Rhapsody


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